The Sounds of The Battlefield
by Jazzmatazzz
Summary: John has a nightmare and only a certain Consulting Detective can comfort him. Sherlock/John Slash and Rated for Violence... just to be safe!


**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock and Watson, I'd be very happy for the rest of my life... but alas, I don't!**

**As I already said this is a _Slash _fiction, so if you don't like it, then shoo now please =)**

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Gunfire. The sound of destruction.

The sound of an automatic SA-80 joined by their brother the M16, firing futile attempts of freedom in the form of projectiles; the shells littering ally territory. The noise is echoed by the barrage of M43 bullets escaping the AK-47s, as the Enemy defend the essence of their corrupt ideology. And of course, no military orchestra is complete without the merciless hum of the Tornado Fighter Jets.

The sounds of screams ricocheting from the walls of the makeshift hospital as doctors strive to save the wounded before the battlefield claims another victim. Army Doctors barking incoherent orders to one another, desperate to save this one soldier's life… forgetting the scenario will repeat itself countless times again.

The sounds of the battlefield take over the mind's eye; take over the subconscious, and take no prisoners.

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_Dr. John Watson was walking through one of London's many alleyways, when the sounds of a battleground rang through his ears. He could hear the handguns empty their cases in forced explosions, while hitting walls and posts with the clang of metal meeting metal. He could hear the cries of innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire, their feet carrying them to a safe distance; Sometimes not safe enough._

_Then come the different kinds of screams; the kind Military Doctors are trained to distinguish from fear and pain. A male voice rips through the Alleyway as a bullet hits its target, the stomach more than likely. John rushes to help, soldier instincts taking over and providing the adrenaline rush needed to conquer the rising fear. Another gunshot rings out… another scream resounds, weaker with loss of blood and hoarse – most likely due to a hand around his throat, trying to silence his pitiful pleas for help. A third blast resounds._

_He arrived at the scene; a body face down and strewn over a back alley crate, blood seeping through the wood and dampening the ground with dark crimson. The three wounds were clearly visible through the casualty's coat, one in the leg and two in the stomach. A poor aim to say the least. Until he sees the man standing over the body, one hand moving from the body's neck to its hair, the other perfectly poised against the temple. The killer – Consulting Criminal to be precise – sees him through the manic glint in his eye and smirks as he pulls up the blood-stained body by its hair, revealing its identity and watches the colour drain from the Doctor's face, the recognition clear. A final gunshot echoes through the alley. John falls to his knees; shock, disbelief, sadness, grief clouding his mind, unable to control anything anymore as lifeless blue eyes stare chillingly cold into his soul-_

"SHERLOCK!" he bolted upright, sheen of cold sweat covering him as he struggles to find his breath and adjust to the shadows of night with eyes still full of terror. He felt the duvet over his legs and the Union Jack pillow behind him to confirm he was still in 221b Baker St. The images still seemed vivid within his mind until his Detective arrived on cue, his face a mixture of fear and worry.

"John, are you alright? What happened?" He asked, sitting next to the shorter man and taking him in his arms as he traces soothing circles on his dearest friend's arm. John moves in closer to the security of Sherlock's arms and letting loose his subconscious fears in quiet sobs, unheard of from the Doctor for as long as Sherlock has known him. He knew the war had affected John, but to turn a man into a vulnerable shell of what he once was is to break his very soul.

"I s-saw him… kill you. Watch as h-he shot you and I c-c-couldn't do anything… t-t save you!" John stuttered into the crook of Sherlock's neck through his own tears.

"Shhhh, It's ok now…. It was just a dream. A very irrational dream; to think I would die in the hands of such a deplorable excuse for a crimi-" he was cut off by John's 'this isn't helping' glare, "But I'm still here… it's alright now" The soothing tones helping John to calm down as his tears subside into small whimpers. He looked up at the dark haired man with puffy, watery eyes.

"Promise you won't leave me Sherlock? Don't leave me at the Battlefield on my own…"

"I couldn't, even if I tried my dear Watson" he replied, softly kissing the top of John's head, pulling the duvet over the both of them and holding his companion close to his chest, until his breathing grew steady and calm in a dreamless sleep. Looking down at him, Sherlock smiled to himself; they would both be lost without each other, despite the occasional severed head. He was intelligent and rational and John was brave and provided the emotional input which Sherlock forgets when the puzzles get interesting. His emotions are saved mainly for the man lying next to him, and they always will be. The Detective tightens his grip around John before allowing the monotony of sleep to overcome him too.

The sounds of the battlefield take over the mind's eye; take over the subconscious, and take no prisoners… that is, unless you're lucky enough to have a friend to help pick up the pieces.


End file.
